by Tarah Benner
“Take this, and get out,” she whispered, pressing the pouch into Lark’s lap. “It’s a sample of every kind of seed we got in this month’s supply drop.”
Lark’s mouth fell open, and she set down her bowl to heft the pouch in her hands. “Kira,” she breathed. “Where did you get this?”
Kira shrugged, but a dark look flashed through her eyes.
“I thought you said —”
“Mercy’s been keeping the seed in my root cellar under lock and key,” she explained. “She always thought she could control me — that I’d never cross her.”
She broke off, and Lark realized the magnitude of what Kira had done.
“Why are you helping me?” Lark asked. Breaking Lark out of the compound, betraying Mercy’s trust, stealing the seed — these were unforgivable offenses that could earn Kira a brutal punishment.
“You’re a good person, Lark . . . You don’t deserve everything that’s happened to you.” Kira’s mouth twitched, and Lark knew she’d almost smiled. “Some of it you bring on yourself, but most of it . . . It ain’t right. GreenSeed has been killin’ us slowly with all their experiments, and as far as I can tell, you’re the only person who can stop it.” She looked down at the little pouch of seeds. “After everything, at least something good might come out of this mess.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Lark. “I can never thank —”
“Don’t thank me yet,” said Kira. “Get — yourself — out.”
“I can’t,” Lark groaned. “I was supposed to have a way to communicate with them while I was in here, but I don’t have that anymore.”
“You found a way to escape last time,” said Kira.
“Last time —” But Kira cut her off.
“You’ll find a way again,” she said firmly. “You have to.”
Lark frowned. Kira didn’t understand. She’d had help last time. Soren had been planning their escape for months, and they still almost hadn’t made it. She was sure that San Judas had shored up all the vulnerabilities that Soren had exploited and had added several more measures to ensure that no inmate ever escaped again. She had no idea where to start.
“You don’t have a choice,” said Kira. “If you don’t get out now, Mercy will kill you.”
twenty-three
Lark
Lark didn’t waste any time waiting around for Mercy to discover that she was missing. Thanks to Kira, she still had a chance, but she had to find a way to stay alive until morning.
Kira left shortly after delivering the seeds, and Lark headed straight for the forest. It was where she felt safe, and Mercy’s daughters didn’t know it half as well as she did. It was probably one of the first places they’d check once they realized she was missing, but it didn’t matter. They could look and look all night and never find her.
As Lark’s eyes adjusted to the deep-blue shadows and shrill night calls, the incessant rush of water reached her ears. Slowly but surely, the outlines of familiar landmarks began to take shape. She passed her favorite grove of aspens and the scraggly old pine that Denali had always liked to sniff, finally reaching the ancient cottonwood tree by the river.
Years of erosion had worn the soil away, leaving its tentacle-like roots exposed. Lark had known foxes and ground squirrels to make their nests among the roots from time to time, but they would have to sacrifice their homes for the night.
Lark immediately went to work gathering as many dead leaves, rotten branches, and fallen pine needles as she could. They scraped up her arms and brought with them the smell of death and decay, but that night they would be the one thing standing between her and a bloody execution.
She pushed all the dead stuff into a pile beside the cottonwood, careful not to disturb the ground beneath. Once she had a sizable pile, she retraced her steps fifty yards back from her hiding place and brushed a handful of sticks over the dirt to cover her tracks. She threw down some leaves and needles for good measure, careful to make the coverage appear random to obscure her path.
When she got back to the tree, she wiggled a long stick in between the roots to scare away any animals that might have been living there. She took a deep breath, lowered herself onto her hands and knees, and crawled into the shelter of the tree.
She pulled the leaves and debris into the space around her, carefully burying herself in the roots. It wasn’t a perfect hiding place, but it would work for the night.
With the scent of death and decay pressing in all around her, Lark began to feel a little claustrophobic. She couldn’t see. The sounds of the forest and the river were muted, making her feel as though she were buried deep underground. But that feeling quickly dissipated when she heard voices echoing through the trees.
Mercy’s daughters were coming for her.
Sinking back into the earth as far as she could go, Lark focused on slowing her breathing and steadying her erratic heart rate. She didn’t know how long they would look for her, but she knew that she might as well settle in.
At one point, she felt — rather than heard — the rumble of footsteps near her hiding place. She imagined them walking along the fence by the river, searching the ground, the treetops, and even the river to find her. Lark felt the tickle of a spider scuttling over her arm, but she just squeezed her eyes shut and held perfectly still as the daughters thundered past her hiding place.
Minutes dragged into hours, and eventually the daughters’ voices receded in the distance. Lark didn’t give up her position. Her mind had been working out the details of the plan she’d made with Kira, and it was essential that she remain hidden until daybreak.
There was only one way out of San Judas — back the way she’d come. And the only way to get the administrators’ attention was to make such a scene that they couldn’t ignore her.
During the five years she had spent inside San Judas, the prison administrators had avoided intervention at all costs. They had looked the other way as Mercy had beaten, tortured, and killed inmates. They had endured — maybe even rewarded — her rein of tyranny because they needed her.
Mercy was a leader — a malevolent dictator, yes, but a leader nonetheless. Without her, there would be a massive power vacuum, and the colony would collapse.
Lark’s plan was a gamble. She knew it might very well cost her her life, but it was her only option. If she died, at least Kira would know the truth. She was the country’s last line of defense — the one person left who might be able to carry the seed out of San Judas if Lark was killed trying to escape.
Once the weak morning light began to filter through the cracks in the tomb she’d built around herself, Lark pushed through the wall of debris, crawled out from between the roots, and brushed herself off. She hunkered down in the weeds and managed to pass the thumb drive — a messy, awkward feat that made her glad not to be a drug mule.
The air wafting from the river was cool and damp. It gushed over rocks and boulders with a comforting, timeless roar. For centuries that river had cut its way through the earth, carrying the possibility of life for miles before corporations had transformed it into an asset that could be bought and sold.
A light breeze lifted the fine hairs that fell into Lark’s eyes, carrying the crisp smell of pine needles and sage. Lark drank in the scent like a dying woman, thinking of home and her mother and all the places she still wanted to go.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched the glow of the sun bleed through the sky. It hadn’t yet broken the canyon wall, but it was still possibly the last sunrise that Lark would ever see.
If she lived, the cost would be high. She could go back to prison. She could spend the rest of her life behind bars. But even if she never got caught, she knew she’d never quite be the same after that day.
Steeling herself for what she was about to do, Lark walked the familiar path back up toward the colony, the little cotton pouch of seeds and the recovered thumb drive clunking around in her boot.
As she emerged from the trees, the comforting warmth of
the sun on her cheek felt at odds with the bleak task she was about to undertake. Lark didn’t bother to stay out of sight as she crossed the open field. She walked straight to the shanty she and Bernie had shared and let herself inside.
Kira had done exactly what she’d told her she would. She’d stuffed a canvas bag from the kitchens with a week’s worth of supplies: beans, potatoes, and even a few early spring vegetables that made Lark’s mouth water. She’d included two full waterskins, a box of matches, and even a shiv that she’d fashioned from a broken plastic spoon.
Lark smiled grimly and tucked the shiv into her belt. She wouldn’t be needing the rest of the supplies. She just needed it to look as though she were trying to make another daring escape.
Just then, the door to her shanty burst open, and four of Mercy’s daughters burst in. Lark barely had a chance to turn around before Bianca tackled her to the ground.
Lark groaned as two hundred pounds of flesh and bone flattened her like a pancake on the hard dirt floor. She narrowly avoided hitting her injured head, but soon Bianca’s hands were wrapped around her wrists, forcing Lark’s arms over her head.
“You’ve finally learned,” Lark hissed, hawking up a loogie and spitting in Bianca’s eye.
A cloud of fury whipped over Bianca’s face, but she didn’t hit Lark as she’d expected.
“Mercy said I’m supposed to save you for her,” Bianca growled, shoving Lark’s wrists as far into the ground as they would go and causing a jolt of pain to rip through Lark’s shoulders. “Otherwise, I’d fucking kill you.”
That statement sent a chill down Lark’s spine, but she just glared up at Bianca.
“Coward,” she spat.
Bianca took several heavy, furious breaths before clambering off of Lark’s hips and hauling her to her feet. The daughters were practically quivering with excitement, and they all took turns kicking dirt on Lark and spitting in her face before marching her out of the shanty and up toward the square.
“Mercy’s finally gonna do it,” Amber-Lee hissed. “You’re finally gonna get what you deserve.”
Lark didn’t speak. She was done talking. She’d already made up her mind, and nothing Amber-Lee or the others said could affect her.
At first she thought Bianca was dragging her to Mercy’s compound, but instead they turned and marched her toward the very middle of the square. A small crowd was already gathered around the whipping post, and they yelled, booed, hissed, and cheered when they saw the daughters hauling Lark between them.
Lark wasn’t immediately sure if the cheers were for her or the daughters, but judging by Bianca’s unease, it was a mixture of both.
Mercy was perched on a stool atop the raised platform, staring out at the crowd with a superior expression on her face. Lark felt gratified to see that Mercy was still dressed in the previous night’s clothes and had deep bags under her eyes. But as she sat there on her throne like queen of the toads, Lark was struck, not for the first time, by Mercy’s unflagging confidence in her own power.
As far as Lark could tell, it was only inertia keeping her there — that and her army of thuggish, spineless sycophants. In reality, her position was precarious. All it took was the collective realization that Mercy and her goons were vastly outnumbered. This was probably why Mercy reacted with such brutality whenever anyone dared to challenge her.
Bianca stopped at the edge of the platform and patted Lark down. She paused when she felt the hard plastic rod sticking out of her waistband and made a show of revealing Kira’s shiv.
She took the weapon and dragged Lark up the steps toward the whipping post. Mercy took her time turning around to face Lark, and when she did, her look was cold and utterly devoid of emotion.
She got to her feet, turned back to the crowd, and smoothed her skirt with her short, fat fingers.
“Lark Roland . . .” she boomed, pausing to wait until the crowd fell silent. “Thief, traitor, sneak . . . You stand before your community in disgrace. You have lied to me. You have stolen from me. And you have hurt those I love most.” Her head swiveled back around to Lark. “You are a blight on this community, and your destructive crime spree must be stopped.”
“How did you escape?” yelled a woman from the crowd.
Mercy fell silent, her expression turning stony as she scanned the crowd for the woman who dared to interrupt her.
“Yeah, how did you do it?” shouted another.
Mercy didn’t have to say a word. She simply nodded at Daya, and she and Amber-Lee strode into the crowd to drag the women away.
“What’s going on out there?” yelled another woman from the back.
“Why has our mail stopped?”
“I was supposed to get out last week!” yelled a girl near the very front. “Nobody came to release me!”
“It’s not right!” yelled her friend.
Lark’s heart thumped harder. Beside her, Mercy was starting to sweat. She didn’t have the manpower to deal with so much unrest. Lark could sense her losing control.
“I do not tolerate liars and thieves in my community,” boomed Mercy. “It threatens our way of life . . . our very survival.”
A wave of sound rose up from the crowd, but it was impossible to tell whether the rest of the inmates were happy with Mercy or not.
She turned to look at Lark but continued to shout so that everyone in the crowd could hear. “Last night, someone broke into my home so that you could avoid punishment.” Her chest puffed out in indignation, and her eyes bulged. “Who helped you?”
Lark didn’t answer. She just stared at Mercy as if she were looking right through her.
“We found a bag in her shanty,” said Bianca. “Someone stole supplies for her. She was planning another escape.”
Mercy’s eyes flashed with rage, and Lark felt a quiet swoop of triumph in her chest.
“Who helped you?” Mercy hissed in a low voice. She was so incensed that she was no longer bothering to put on a show.
Lark didn’t answer. She had to push Mercy a little further — just far enough to deliver the sentence that Lark knew she had coming.
“I’ll give you until high noon,” Mercy yelled, regaining her composure long enough to turn back to face the crowd. “At noon you will have one last opportunity to clear your conscience, and then you will be put to death.”
Lark had been expecting this, but it didn’t stop the bottom from dropping out of her stomach. This was it. Mercy was out of options. She had just pushed all her chips to the center of the table and was about to play her final hand.
Lark swallowed and glared at Mercy, trying desperately not to show fear.
A moment later, Bianca stepped up and dragged her against the whipping post, binding Lark’s hands behind her back.
Mercy was medieval in how she handled executions. She always put the accused on display for several hours before she killed them so that everyone could feel their fear. Usually, the woman up for execution would use that time to contemplate her impending death, and by the time Mercy actually got around to hanging her, the accused would be teetering on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.
Afterward, she left their bodies festering in the sun for at least a day. The stench of decomposing flesh created an impression that no amount of public beatings could. It left a horrible taste in everyone’s mouths that ruined their appetites for a week. No one could forget the smell of a dead body.
As Mercy turned and flounced off the platform, the shadow of a smirk ghosted across Lark’s lips.
Mercy didn’t know it yet, but she was playing right into Lark’s hands. Mercy’s revenge would be her undoing.
twenty-four
Bernie
Bernie broke into a nervous sweat as they drove through the mountains toward Colorado Springs. She could feel the moisture pooling under her arms, soaking through her clothes, and dripping down between her boobs. She hated boob sweat more than anything, but if there was ever a time when it was justified, this was it.
T
hey were rattling down a narrow two-lane road in a blacked-out utility van that had definitely seen better days. The tail pipe rattled against the van’s undercarriage, and the engine was emitting all sorts of weird sounds that made Bernie question its suitability as an escape vehicle.
Denali seemed to sense her nervousness. He kept clambering around in the back of the van, alternately whining and pawing at the door.
Simjay was following them in Conrad’s Jeep. The van was tricked out with all of their equipment, but they needed Conrad’s main vehicle so that he could drive up to the facility without arousing suspicion.
Simjay had asked Bernie if she wanted to drive with him, but she’d said that she wanted to stick with Portia in case she got hit with a bad bout of morning sickness.
In truth, Bernie just wanted to distance herself from Simjay. She was still experiencing sudden bursts of feelings, and she didn’t have the time or the energy to figure out what they might mean. She needed to stay focused on the mission, which meant avoiding confined spaces with Simjay.
The inside of the van was straight out of Storm Chasers, with a couple of laptops, a small satellite, and a bunch of equipment that Bernie didn’t recognize. The plan was to park the van a few miles from the facility until it was time for extraction and keep an eye on the feeds via satellite.
It was a little scary how well-prepared Conrad was. It was as if he’d been training for this day his entire life.
On Portia’s recommendation, Conrad had shaved his beard, cut his hair, and trimmed his nails. He was almost unrecognizable. He was still pale and a little squirrelly, but he no longer looked like the paranoid hermit who’d been living on beans and ready-to-eat meals for the past two years. He looked . . . normal.
They reached a flat stretch of highway just as the sun began to peek over the horizon. Farms and stables dotted the road, and the mountains began to shrink in the distance.
